


little brother

by JewFlexive



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass Cersei Lannister, Debts, Dragon dreams, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hand of the King Tyrion Lannister, Honor is Relative, Minor Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Ned Stark is more of an asshole, Protective Siblings, Robert Baratheon is less of an asshole, Tyrion Drinks Less But Knows More, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, Westerosi Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2019-12-25 16:03:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18264698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JewFlexive/pseuds/JewFlexive
Summary: "Love him for me,” Jaime begs, and how it pains her to see him reduced to such things. Her golden brother should have the world handed to him on a platter. “Be his protector when I can’t. He’s a good boy, Cersei–– clever and quick and kind, so kind. Please, Cersei, promise me.”Jaime makes Cersei promise, and a Lannister always pays her debts. The Westeros Daenerys finds is much different for it.





	1. Cersei I

**_something left to prove since you left me_ **

Jaime is bleeding.

That is not the only thing Cersei notices. There are other worthy things to note in the bustling solar, of course. Father is cursing Maester Pycelle to the Seven Hells, hailing down oaths that are so morbidly creative that Cersei is tempted to take notes; Alys is crying softly next to her, the simpering fool, as she shrinks into the curtains; and Tyrion, the little monster, is next to her, trying to grab her hand, as he’d somehow managed to sneak out of the Rock without her knowledge, stowed away with the luggage she had brought. But none of this matters because _Jaime is bleeding_.

There is so much blood. Even from the doorway, Cersei can easily make out the red stain spreading from his abdomen, can see how pale her brother is. His brow is tense as he breathes, and Cersei is too smart to ignore the fact that he doesn’t have too many breaths left.

“Never mind, then,” Tywin roars, and Jaime, poor, sweet Jaime, flinches, and the stain seems to suddenly get larger.

“Stop it!” Tyrion cries out, taking a step forward with uncharacteristic bravery, glaring at Father with a kind of malice that Cersei did not think him capable of. “You’re hurting him!”

Tywin opens his mouth to berate his youngest son, and Cersei is near gleeful in anticipation, despite everything, but then Jaime groans, and the room seems to stand still.

“Th-there’s n-nothing for it, m-my Lord,” Pycelle mutters. “Th-the best thing f-for Ser Jaime now i-is peace a-and quiet.”

Cersei watches as her father, the proudest man in the seven kingdoms, lets his shoulders fall. He turns from the dwarf to look at Jaime, who is still managing to sit upright and alert, despite everything, and Cersei loves him for it.

“I love you, Jaime,” Tywin tells him woodenly, and Cersei almost laughs. How long had Tywin rehearsed that in the mirror, waiting for the exact moment when the sentiment would be most expected, but least useful? “You are my heir and I love you, and I’m sorry I can’t save you.”

Jaime studies their father for a moment, and Cersei thinks he might actually return the words that Lannister children so rarely hear, but instead he nods to Tyrion and hardens.

“If being your heir is what it takes to get your love,” he all but spits, his eyes fiery, and he looks more like a lion than he ever has. “Then my brother should be _most_ beloved when I go.”

Tyrion steps back and Cersei gapes at them all.

“He’ll be leagues better than I ever was, anyhow,” Jaime continues, smiling wanly. It looks gruesome with his bloody teeth. Cersei’s heart is stuttering. “You should be proud, Father, and treat him better than you ever did me. It is only right, after all. He is _family_.”

Tywin makes a furious noise in the back of his throat and pushes past Cersei, jostling her and only her, since Alys and Tyrion have the forethought to move aside. But Cersei is frozen, and she barely registers how her father scolds her.

Her brother is dying.

 _Jaime_ is dying, one half of her is bleeding out in a tiny solar, and he looks so young. He is too young to die, he is too young to have been doing what led to it. He should be back at the Rock–– they both should be together in her bed now, the silk sheets sliding over their naked bodies as they kiss and kiss like it is the end of the world.

Her Jaime is dying.

And he used his last words to their father to praise _Tyrion_.

Before she can berate him (and doesn’t that say so much about her, she thinks despairingly, that Jaime has minutes left, if that, and her first instinct is to yell at him, what kind of person is she?) Tyrion steps forward again, kneeling by Jaime as he clasps his brother’s hand tightly.

“You shouldn’t have said that, Jaime,” he says softly.

“Like fuck I shouldn’t have,” Jaime retorts, and Tyrion smirks a little at his language, still innocent in so many ways. “I’m not dying without him knowing exactly how I feel about how––”

“What do you mean _dying_?” Tyrion demands, his eyes widening. He turns to Cersei, looking to her for comfort for the first time since he understood how low he stood in her esteem. He tries to laugh, but it rings hollow as he grips Jaime's hand tighter. “Jaime, don’t be stupid, you’ll be okay.”

“You’re the stupid one,” Cersei snaps, and dammit she’s crying, hot, fat tears dribbling down her face. She hasn’t cried since her father missed her third name day. Crying is weak, it is unseemly, especially of a lion. But Jaime is bleeding and Cersei feels like she is too. She continues almost helplessly as she finally joins them both, taking Jaimes other hand in her own and lacing their fingers together. He squeezes her hand twice, just like always. She squeezes back three times, never one to let him win, just like always. They still fit together so well. “He’s dying, that’s why Father left. He’s dying.”

Now she’s sobbing, bitter cries slipping out from her lips despite her best efforts. Jaime lets out a long breath, and she knows that he’s about to join her. He never let her be weak alone.

“You can’t die,” Tyrion sounds like he is crying too, as he begs. “You promised to show me how to fight with a dagger when you came back home, don’t you remember? And you promised to read my dragon books with me, and you said you’d go riding with me. You promised, Jaime!”

“I know, cub,” Jaime’s voice is soft in a way Cersei doesn’t recognize as he attempts to soothe their brother. But Cersei doesn’t care. She is memorizing his face, cataloguing each piece of him that she won’t see in a mirror later. The freckle beneath his right eye, the slight stubble under his jaw that he always misses when he shaves, the small scar on his left thumb. “I’m sorry, Tyrion.”

“You promised,” Tyrion repeats stubbornly, as if Jaime doesn’t remember, as if he can save Jaime with sheer force of will. His high voice barely shakes as he commands his older brother with a gravity that almost reminds Cersei of Tywin. “A Lannister doesn’t break promises. They pay their debts. ”

“Tyrion,” Jaime’s voice is stronger now, almost stern, as he interrupts Tyrion’s protests. “You know I love you, don’t you? I need you to know that.”

Tyrion nods warily.

“Say, it, cub, come on.”

Tyrion gulps, his eyes glistening. “You love me.”

Jaime smiles softly, his bloody teeth somehow not seeming as gruesome as he looks at Tyrion, his eyes roaming over their little brother, as if each and every part of Tyrion's twisted visage is something beautiful. “Remember that, Tyrion. The world won’t be easy on you, and there are going to be days when you’ll think no one loves you. But _I_ love you, cub. I’ve loved you since the moment you were born, because you are good and smart and kind and my baby brother. You are _loved_ , Tyrion, and you deserve mine and more. Remember that, okay? Promise me, cub. Promise me.”

“I promise, Jaime,” Tyrion whispers, tears falling freely down his face. Cersei tries to hate him for this, really she does, because of course the little monster is a cry-baby on top of everything else, but something stops her. Jaime’s love, little that she understands it, stops her.

“Let me say goodbye to Cersei, now, okay Tyrion?”

Tyrion takes a breath, then, and Cersei can almost see a mask come down over his eyes. He doesn’t look sad anymore, just tired and determined, looking older than his nine years. He turns to go, nodding for Alys to come with him, but when he reaches the doorway, he pauses.

“You’re my hero, Jaime,” he says, his back still to Cersei and her brother. “You’re the only sworn sword I’ll ever have. So thank you. And…” he takes a shaky breath. “I love you, too. Give The Stranger hell for me.”

Jaime barks out a quick laugh at his baby brother’s first curse, and Cersei notices how Tyrion’s shoulders seem to relax. He walks out, then, leaving Cersei alone with her brother.

She turns to him quickly, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him fiercely. His mouth is bloody and tastes like poppies, but she can’t bring herself to stop. She wonders if she will ever find someone else whose kisses fill her with such exuberance.

“I forgive you,” she tells him as they part, his breath becoming too labored for them to continue. She climbs onto the settee with him and presses her forehead against his. “I know you didn’t mean for this to happen. I know you wanted to stay with me."

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Jaime tells her, and for the first time in her memory he sounds afraid, so afraid, his voice catching on each syllable as he lean into her touch. His shirt is wet with blood. “All I’ve ever wanted was you. I don't want to die, Cersei. I want you, only you.”

Cersei decides right then that she will never forgive Ned Stark. Not only did he kill Jaime, he has made her brother sound broken. Jaime is not supposed to sound broken, not her anchor, not her boy.

“You have me,” Cersei tells him. “Anything you want.”

There is a pause.

“Anything?” He asks her.

“Anything,” she answers him, twirling a piece of his golden hair around and around her first finger. “What do you need Jaime?”

“Tyrion needs you, Cersei,” he tells her, and Cersei nearly faints with shock. “I want you to––”

“He’s a monster!” She exclaims, drawing back hastily to study Jaime. “You’re mad if you think I’ll––”

“I’ve never felt more sane, Cersei,” Jaime is firm in a way he never has been before. “It is not his fault Mother died, and blaming him is wrong Cersei. It’s _wrong_.”

Cersei doesn’t know what to say.

“Love him for me,” Jaime begs, and how it pains her to see him reduced to such things. Her golden brother should have the world handed to him on a platter. “Be his protector when I can’t. He’s a good boy, Cersei–– clever and quick and _kind_ , so kind. Please, Cersei, promise me.”

Cersei doesn’t know what compels her to nod her head, to whisper an _I promise_ against Jaime’s lips, but she does know that she won’t ignore this last request. Jaime loves Tyrion, for better or for worse, and Cersei knows (oh, how she knows) that losing Jaime’s love will be no small thing. And… if she is honest with herself (which is rarely nowadays,) Cersei can’t help but be moved by the way Tyrion and Jaime looked at each other. She can’t help but pity her baby brother.

So she kisses Jaime’s fingers and swears to him that she will love Tyrion, that she will protect him while Jaime is gone. And she means it, because Jaime has given her the sun, and has only ever asked a pittance in return.

She means it because she loves Jaime, and Jaime loves Tyrion, and that will have to be enough.

Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard dies in his sister's arms moments later, and a part of her dies with him. But Cersei is a strong girl, a lioness if there ever was one. So that night she tucks Tyrion into bed and sings him a lullaby, and they both pretend she means it.


	2. Cersei II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei makes a discovery.

******_i carried your heart like a wounded animal_ **

Cersei has not slept through the whole night for the last week.

Since they were children, Jaime would sneak into Tyrion’s room and stay there overnight, curled up around his younger brother like he was all that there was between danger and the littlest Lannister, quietly tucking his long legs into a ball so they would fit behind Tyrion’s stunted ones. He did so almost religiously, as if he was convinced that it was his body alone that kept his baby brother’s heart beating as he slept. Tywin had never been the wiser, of course, but Cersei had known, and it had been the cause of more than a few of her rows with her twin.

 _Why are you bothering to sneak out at all if you’re only going to go to_ his _bed_ , she’d sneer. Jaime would respond with useless platitudes, telling her that he loved her more than life, that she was everything to him and more, kissing her eyelids and promising to devote more time to her.

Regardless, he always ended up with Tyrion as night fell. It used to boggle Cersei’s mind; Jaime was decidedly invested in making love to her. Every time he fucked her, he did so with a singular focus, his eyes brimming with a sort of ecstasy that made Cersei shiver. They never had enough time to truly enjoy it, not when they were both looking over their shoulders and praying to all the gods that they were alone, and Cersei had thought that, as time went on, the lure of coupling without any distractions would convince Jaime to come to her bed instead. But each night, without fail, Jaime would choose Tyrion.

Now Cersei knows why.

Her baby brother is writhing in his bed, crying and whimpering in his sleep, uselessly reaching across his sheets for something–– or someone.

Their maester had sent a raven to Cersei earlier that day when she’d wrote for advice on dealing with the matter, writing that Tyrion was always like this without Jaime, that the small boy usually took to ignoring a full night’s sleep when the Lannister heir was off of the Rock, preferring power naps during the day to his night terrors. Cersei hadn’t known. She’d hadn’t an idea. What kind of sister…?

Cersei shakes herself. Her self-pity (self- _loathing_ , a voice in her head insists) will not remedy this. Clearly, Jaime did something to keep the kid quiet, to keep Cersei’s sleep from consistently getting interrupted by these childish moans and cries. The problem is, Cersei doesn’t know what that is.

She tries to wake him to no avail, jostling him hard, but he only curls into himself and whimpers, vulnerable in a way that she has never seen him. Cersei does not love Tyrion, hates him and his stunted limbs in a way she is only now being forced to grapple with, but she is too intelligent to ignore how _strong_ he is. He is the only person she knows who can look Tywin in the eye and remain unperturbed, and he has stubbornly clung onto life these past nine years with a fire in his gaze that sometimes scares her. Her baby brother is many things, but he is not weak.

Watching Tyrion act like this, helpless to aid him as he remains trapped in slumber, makes Cersei feel uncharacteristically small, and there is nothing she wouldn’t do to make this putrid feeling of shame leave her chest. Jaime would know what to do-- Jaime always knew what to do.

 _Jaime wants you to love him_ Cersei suddenly thinks to herself as she holds Tyrion’s wrists down to keep him from hurting himself. _Jaime wants you to protect him, to be to him a shield and an anchor. Jaime wants Tyrion to be happy and loved. But what else does Jaime want from this?_

For the first time since her beloved brother died, Cersei wonders if there was another reason Jaime had looked so earnest as he begged her. If there had been one more sibling he was trying to save.

Cersei wants to laugh at the idea, to laugh at imagining her rather straightforward brother devising a plan so based on subtext, but Jaime was crafty when it suited him-- though, to be fair, it rarely suited him. But when she pulls Tyrion into her arms to simply stop his thrashing, the small boy instantly quiets, letting out a small sigh as he begins to breathe in tandem with the slow beat of Cersei’s heart.

 _Oh_ Cersei realizes with a half gasp, half sob.

(When Tyrion was a baby, no one would hold him. The maids were all terrified of him, and Tywin had conveniently forgotten to employ a wet nurse, so all one could to do to feed the baby was put a bit of goat milk in a canteen and hope for the best. The first time anyone touched Tyrion any more than was strictly necessary was when Genna Frey arrived to the Rock weeks later, all bluster and indignation and demanded that Jaime and Cersei take her to see her new nephew, since her own brother had shut the door in her face.

Cersei had sullenly trailed after her brother and aunt into the nursery, and Genna had made a quiet noise of distress when she surveyed the room and its occupants. There was only one maid in the room, and she was glaring contemptuously at the crying baby in the bassinet beside her, not bothering to even try to soothe him.

Genna had slapped the girl across the face and demanded she leave, and once the girl had, Cersei’s aunt had lifted baby Tyrion out of his crib, gently gathering him into her arms as she took the nurse’s seat.

“Poor lad,” she’d murmured, surveying her young nephew. “You’re in for it, I fear.”

She’d run a chubby hand over the baby’s too-big head, smoothing down the tufts of blonde hair and making Tyrion coo with contentment. Genna smiled an uncharacteristically soft smile before turning to Jaime and Cersei.

“Now,” she’d asked. “Who wants to hold him first?”

Cersei had sniffed and crossed her arms, but Jaime had all but lept at the chance, bounding over towards Genna with a wide smile and open arms. Slowly, with a reminder to watch the head, Genna had transferred the now happy, gurgling baby into his big brother’s arms.

If Tyrion had been pleased with Genna, he was ecstatic with Jaime, immediately pressing his head against his brother’s chest and grabbing at his free hand, gripping the forefinger with a kind of reckless abandon that made Genna laugh one of those big, booming laughs of hers.

As if transfixed by some dark sorcery, the three old Lannisters stood still and watched as Tyrion slowly calmed and fell asleep with his ear to Jaime’s heart, Cersei’s twin grinning all the while.

Later, Cersei called Jaime an idiot for spending more time with the baby then with her, but there was something niggling in her chest whenever she visited the nursery again, something she’d never had words to describe. Something that made her arms feel empty and her chest cold.)

Tyrion is comforted by another person’s beating heart. He is calm only when he is reminded that he is not alone, that somebody loves him enough to touch him, to hold him while his dreams render him inconsolable.

 _Love him for me_ Jaime’s voice demands of Cersei, but this time, Cersei doesn’t need any reminder, because Tyrion is soft and sweet in her arms, and for once in her life, she forces herself to see what he is, really: a sad, scared little boy reaching out for somebody, anybody.

Cersei is a sad, scared young woman reaching out for somebody, anybody, and she sees now, what Jaime has given her, has given them both. Jaime has given them a _somebody_.

So Cersei curls around her brother, her chest pressed to his back, and wills her heart to him, forces it to tell him that he is not alone. Cersei falls asleep with her nose in his blonde hair, her arms tightly wrapped around him, and her last conscious thought before she wakes up with him staring at her with a surprised kind of terror is that maybe Tyrion is to be _her_ anchor, not the other way around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! I am so sorry for the delayed update! I just finished my year at school, so I should be posting more frequently now that I'm back home. All your wonderful comments on chapter one were so so amazing to read, and I am hopeful that you guys like where the story goes! You all are really helping my motivation with getting this out there, and I can't thank you enough.
> 
> (The idea of being comforted by a beating heart comes from attonitos_gloria's Sanrion fic https://archiveofourown.org/works/15373998/chapters/35675934. Check it out! It's one of the best GOT stories I've ever read, and the author is simply lovely.)
> 
> As always, leave a kudos and/or comment! For an author, that's better than a D&D free Season 8.
> 
> (Yes, I am still angry. No, I will never be over it.)


	3. Tyrion I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion knows that he’s intelligent, both his maesters say so.

**_thought you said you didn’t feel pain_ **

Tyrion knows that he’s intelligent, both his maesters say so.

(Tyrion has two maesters teaching him now, mostly because Jaime refused to let Maester Volarik be alone with his little brother and started to sit in on all of Tyrion’s lessons, ignoring his own in favor of watching the old man like a real live lion on the prowl. Father tried everything to get Jaime to leave it be, up to and including withholding meals and confiscating his heir’s sword entirely, but all it took was one closed door meeting in Tywin’s solar for Maester Gurnar to be sent for immediately and for Jaime to get back into the training yard.

Tyrion still doesn’t understand why Jaime told him to be wary of the old man. Volarik smells like cheese and has an unsettling air about him, but he’s a maester and therefore a wise man, and Tyrion only gets to talk to so many learned people locked up in the Rock because whatever his uncles tell him, Uncle Gerion is _not_ a very wise man, but a very silly one. Besides, Volarik has never done anything with his hands except wring them concernedly whenever he hears Tywin’s booming voice, and if that’s sinister, then all of Westeros is villainous.)

Anyway, Tyrion knows he’s smart. He knows he’s clever and quick and witty. He’s known it his whole life. Aunt Genna said once that it was cocky of him to be so assured of his own intelligence at such a young age, but Aunt Genna, by her own admission, is hardly one to talk.

But if Tyrion’s so smart, why can’t he figure out what is wrong with Cersei?

The obvious answer is that she’s sad. She’s sad about Jaime (and Tyrion is sad, too, so sad he aches with it, and he wishes he was big enough to walk right up to that tall northern man and see how he likes being skewered in the back with a sword, wishes he could turn back time and tell Jaime he loves him just twice more) and sad people reach out to other sad people. That’s what Uncle Kevan says funerals are for-- mourning is easier when people are together. She’s sad and Jaime isn’t able to sleep in her bed so she wants to sleep in Tyrion's.

(Tyrion chooses to ignore the difference between what's happening now and what usually happened between Cersei and Jaime when _they_ slept together because _gross_ . He loved his brother, but really, Jaime was lucky that Tyrion was willing to forgive so much. Tyrion is only nine years old, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to do _that_ with a lady.)

The problem is that the obvious answer can’t be the real answer. Cersei doesn’t like him, hates him really, so if she’s sad he wouldn’t be any comfort to her, not one bit. This, of course, means that there’s something else going on, something that will probably hurt later, but Cersei looks so pretty when she sleeps, soft, and seeing Cersei soft reminds him of Jaime, and looking at her is almost like looking at his brother. 

(Tyrion suddenly wishes that he had a twin all his own too. Someone else who looked like him. But the thought feels selfish, somehow, and he pushes it away.)

Cersei is holding him tight to her breast and it’s nice. Comforting. His head fits snugly underneath her chin and he likes how her arms are clutching him just a little too tightly. The pinch makes him feel like she is breathing him in, like she isn’t afraid of him, and it feels good for someone not to hate him. 

Her heartbeat is slow and steady and Tyrion times his breaths to it. He’d had another dragon dream last night, only this time there’d been a girl with fiery hair and ocean eyes next to him and they were _both_ screaming. It’s the first time he’d ever seen anyone new in the dreams, and it scares him, just a little. 

(Tyrion misses Jaime so much it hurts. Jaime was everything, golden and bright and beautiful, and it was Jaime to whom Tyrion divulged all his secrets, because they are so heavy and Tyrion never feels strong enough to shoulder them all alone. But now the person who helped Tyrion carry the many many hidden parts of himself is dead and Tyrion’s secrets don’t have any place to land. They’re falling, really, and for all that Tyrion lives close to the ground, all his secrets seem to be falling from a much greater height.)

He is only just starting to drift back to sleep in his sister’s warm embrace when Cersei stirs and his eyes snap open. He should move, he thinks desperately, but his body doesn’t obey him as he stays terrifyingly still while his sister awakens and stiffens with the realization of where she is. Her emerald-green eyes narrow slightly as she stares into his own wide ones and Tyrion shoots a desperate plea to the gods that she won’t hit him. 

She doesn’t hit him, but she does extricate herself from him and the bedsheets in a frenzy, and Tyrion tries not to do something stupid like cry. Tyion’s intelligent, both his maesters say so. He knows how the land lies. He knows that Cersei hates him. He knows that if her embrace meant anything, it probably meant something cruel. 

But Cersei doesn’t run from the room after she quits the bed. Instead she opens her mouth.

“You were having a nightmare,” she informs him, clearly trying to skip over what would have undoubtedly been an embarrassing amount of questions, and though her voice is cold, it is obvious that she is making some attempt to keep it civil. “It was loud, and I couldn’t sleep, and holding you seemed to help.”

Tyrion’s mind still feels far away and foggy, but Tyrion is clever and quick and witty so he pushes through and musters up the courage to correct her. 

“Not nightmares,” his voice is small, like him, and he doesn’t like it. Uncle Gerion always said that lions ought to roar, not whimper. “I mean, not really. I call them my dragon dreams.”

Cersei pulls a face.

“Dragon dreams?” Her voice has lost its careful tone and Tyrion winces at the ice he hears. That small movement seems to quell her annoyance though, if only a little, and her next question is still anything but kind. “What kind of nonsense is that?”

Tyrion shrugs and tries to keep eye contact but all he wants to do is bury himself in his covers and never wake up again.

“My own kind of nonsense, I guess,” he pushes himself up and squints at the closed curtains. He has no idea what time it is and it’s making him feel off balance. “Jaime says--”

He cuts himself off. He and Cersei both take a few ragged breaths, and Tyrion can’t help but feel relieved that he and his sister are united in their grief. This, at least, they will be able to understand about each other. Jaime has always been the one thread connecting them, the one thing that keeps Cersei from outright hurting him and Tyrion from hurting her right back. It would break Tyrion if Jaime took that conditional _detente_ he and Cersei sometimes shared with him the night that he died.

Cersei breaks the heavy, tearful silence first.

“I’ll just be going,” she tells him awkwardly, brushing an invisible speck of dust off of the robe draped on the chair nearest to her before donning it hurriedly. “Father and I have a meeting with the new king.”

Tyrion nods but doesn’t reply. Cersei walks towards the door, but hesitates, her hand hovering over the door knob. For a moment, it looks like she’s going to turn around, like she’s going to walk back towards Tyrion and wrap him up in her arms again, and in that moment, Tyrion considers letting her. He will let her play whatever game she likes if she just hugs him one more time.

(Jaime used to pick Tyrion up and spin him around and around and Tyrion never loved him more than in those moments when they saw each other after a long time apart and Jaime would run towards him and lift his little brother high up in the air and look at him as if he was something beautiful.

Tyrion has only ever wanted for someone to look at him as if he was something beautiful. Jaime was the only one who ever did and Tyrion wonders what he did to make the gods take even that one good thing away from him along with everything and everyone else.)

Cersei’s moment of indecision is gone as quickly as it appeared, and within seconds it’s like she was never in Tyrion’s room at all.

Tyrion knows he’s intelligent, both his maesters say so. 

Tyrion should have known better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! I will try to update more regularly.
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated. They are so important and were a big reason that I was able to get the motivation to finish this chapter. Much love!


End file.
